


let him climb inside my body and held him captive with my kiss

by xerampelinae



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M, Post-Kerberos Mission, Pre-Kerberos Mission, References to Sexual Assault, References to Suicide, Sex Magic, nonchronological
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 04:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18003653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xerampelinae/pseuds/xerampelinae
Summary: “You gotta be careful, kid,” his pop says, fingers combing through his hair. “There’s as many ghosts out there as ways to die. Some of them’re real dangerous.”“Does everyone become a ghost when they die?” Keith wonders. Beneath the bandage, his knee throbs.“Nah,” his pop says, wrapping Keith up in his arms. “Takes something strong enough to leave an impression. Course, sometimes they’ll travel a ways, just to say goodbye, but those don’t always stick around.”-The Galaxy Garrison teaches its students both science and magic. Keith is a witch who sees ghosts. Rescuing Shiro from the Garrison goes a little differently.





	let him climb inside my body and held him captive with my kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This one's a little (lot) more than my past works, so please mind the warnings! Go big or go home, yeah?

The first ghost Keith sees is his father, visible from the window of his classroom. His father stares into the distance, at the barest plume of smoke. Some classroom chatter catches his attention and when he looks back a moment later, his father is gone. Keith is called out of class an hour later.

His father isn't the last ghost Keith sees, not by a long shot. Keith is a witch after all. The kind that sees ghosts. After the Kerberos mission is lost, it's a waiting game between believing and not believing, waiting for Shiro’s ghost and hoping/not-hoping never to see it.

Keith never does. It’s the loneliest he's ever known, because he still has hope. Unfortunately, he seems to be the only one.

The meteorite falls from the sky a year after _Kore_ and her crew go dark, months after the mission meant to find answers lands and begins to transmit back the black box data for analysis. It leaves a mark in the sand where it strikes--melted to glass like lightning sand--but the meteorite itself rests on unmelted sand Keith follows it to where it’s come to rest. The glass and sand radiate with heat but not the meteorite; it’s cool to the touch, and shifts when Keith picks it up. For a moment Keith fumbles with the meteorite before he gets his second hand up to cradle it, and watches it split cleanly in half.

There’s a ring inside the meteorite: improbable and beautiful. Very few things in the universe are truly neutral, Keith has found. The ring is something even more unusual: it favors him. For whatever reason, nothing that favors Keith lasts. But the last time there had been a promise--Keith cuts the thought short. He’d made promises too and he hadn’t been able to keep them all either.

Regardless of favor or not, its intentions read honestly. Intentions run true to the bone, and Keith can always read them.

In the distance, lights kick up, moving fast in the darkness. The ring pulses warm in his hands as he stands; he means to shove it deep into his pouch with the meteorite halves but the ring slides up his finger and settles securely in place over his glove. There’s no time to debate. Keith hurries to his hover bike and guns its engine. 

It takes some maneuvering and a creative route from happier days, but the Garrison disappears into the dust. Keith vanishes into the night. Overhead, the stars burn clear through the unpolluted atmosphere, sharp and defiant across the distance.

-

At night, the desert is cold in ways that outsiders don’t expect. Habit has Keith strip his jacket off, feeling the night air catch at his arms. Next come the gloves: the right slides easily off, but the left catches.

Keith forgets about the ring until it’s catching around his finger. He sighs and focuses on it, grasping the smooth matte gray of it; it responds easily and Keith slides it onto his right hand to remove his remaining glove.

The ring settles comfortably on that finger and every other finger that Keith tries on. He’s pretty sure that’s not how rings work. Bemused, he leaves the ring on and begins to prepare for bed, raising the boundary wards and pausing to stare at the corkboard.

“Where are you?” Keith murmurs. The ring releases a soothing pulse of heat and Keith looses a huff of laughter, brushing his thumb against the smooth band. “Alright,” he says. “Time for sleep.”

He falls asleep with his hands drawn up by his face, fingers curled around the borrowed charm hanging at his neck.

-

There aren't many witches with abyssal leanings at the Garrison; most students and members of the staff have air or astral leanings, or even earth-metal. Earth-wood, fire and water leanings are present, with a couple in each class.

No one warns Keith about the suicides or the ghosts they leave behind. It’s the sort of thing that's happened before; his dad had mentioned that sometimes, members of their family (because of course it ran in their family, that much his dad had managed to say of their limited family history) couldn't recognize ghosts for what they were.

It takes Keith one week to figure out that Guiying is dead. It’s another before Shiro sees him talking to her--to the apparent open air.

“Keith?” Shiro says, brow creased with confusion. 

“This is Guiying,” Keith says, gesturing even as she inclines her head, understanding that her actions will go unseen.

“Dinner?” Shiro says, low and worried in a way that he tries to conceal.

“Sure,” Keith says, and waves to Guiying as they leave the courtyard. She waves back, eyes dark and gentle.

-

“You gotta be careful, kid,” his pop says, fingers combing through his hair. “There’s as many ghosts out there as ways to die. Some of them’re real dangerous.”

“Does everyone become a ghost when they die?” Keith wonders. Beneath the bandage, his knee throbs.

“Nah,” his pop says, wrapping Keith up in his arms. “Takes something strong enough to leave an impression. Course, sometimes they’ll travel a ways, just to say goodbye, but those don’t always stick around.”

“Why?” Keith says, arms latching around his father’s neck securely.

“It’s hard to stay without an anchor. Or there’s something strong enough elsewhere to keep them going without one.”

-

“You have an abyssal leaning?” Shiro says at the quiet table he’d picked out. The dining hall just opened; there’s chatter but it’s still mostly empty.

“Yeah,” Keith says, prodding the sad dining hall rice with his fork as he tries to steel himself to eat it. “Lot of people think I have air leaning, the way I fly, but I don’t.”

“Keith,” Shiro says, “about the ghosts here--”

“I know,” Keith says. “Most of them are suicides. I _know,_ Shiro.”

Sighing, Shiro looks down at his hands. “I’m sorry, Keith,” he says. “I’m just worrying for you. There aren’t many here with abyssal leanings. There’s not much support--”

“Guiying’s kind,” Keith says haltingly. “I don’t know why she’s still here--whatever lead her there, it was a different kind of despair than the others here.”

“I'm sorry,” Shiro says, smiling tightly. “I'm just-- _worried._ This is a hard enough environment academically without any other stressors or complications.”

It’s a long moment before Keith answers. “Thanks, Shiro,” he says.

-

Without his gloves, Keith’s hands feel vulnerable. Still, that first morning with the ring, Keith falters as he dresses. Then he pulls on his glove over the ring. Less than a day and he’s already attached to it; somehow it reminds him of the way he and Shiro had become friends and he finds himself unwilling to give that up.

The day is another devoted to following the nameless, wordless call into the desert. There are only the barest traces of ghosts there, memories worn down and bleached as they scatter like picked-apart carrion. Keith doesn’t succeed in finding the source that day, as with the preceding days, and it’s a frustration that bleeds into other things. Calisthenics don’t ease the frustrations; Keith finds himself thinking of another method and shuts the house, resigned to another day without significant progress.

Deliberately, Keith strips down, folding and piling his clothes neatly beside the bed. He doesn’t do this all the time--his libido is inconsistent and easily ignored--but sometimes he takes time to take himself apart.

There are benefits to ambidexterity. A good pump of lube spreads easily over his palms and fingers; one hand to travel the length of him, the other to search lower and deeper still. Slow, searching movements that gather heat in his belly. Keith has no class or meeting scheduled later--not here, forgotten and reclaimed once more by the desert--and the rest of the day’s written off for productivity, no matter what happens now. There is no rush.

The angle isn’t the easiest, but Keith’s flexible enough to make it work--and it does, sending his back into a sweet arch. The only sound is Keith’s breathing, but the air seems to grow charged and it's enough to make Keith open his eyes again despite his distraction.

The ring is warm around his finger as he looks back, stilling. Warmth blankets his flank, inexplicable and close. “What--” Keith gasps. “Shiro?”

“Keith?” Shiro says, eyes wide and warm, flush traveling across his cheeks and his ears. His hand settles feather-light along Keith’s flank and a wave of sensation crashes over them both. Surprised, they topple over the precipice together.

-

“Shiro?” Keith says softly. The bed’s a mess of sheets and cooling fluids; Keith resettles enough to look up at Shiro, conscious of how close they’re pressed in so small a bed and so nakedly and yet unwilling to part. They’re almost too close together to look for the changes in Shiro’s body, but they’re there: scar tissue, a prosthetic of some sort, and even an increase in muscle mass. Shiro was never a small man but now his shoulders are so broad and strong, and his biceps must be as big as Keith’s thighs are now; it would be easy for him to lift Keith, if that was what he wanted. To put him where he wanted. It’s a distracting line of thought. “What happened--I mean, out there and just now?”

“There’s something monstrous and cruel out in the black,” Shiro says, low and carefully. He raises the prosthetic hand, closing it into a tight fist. “An empire. They did something to me.”

“How did you get here?” Keith says, mind working. 

Like an afterthought, Shiro’s hand slides down to Keith’s, fingertips brushing the ring. His hand and the ring have the same warmth. “I think,” Shiro says, “they sealed me away. And someone helped me get away.”

“Shiro?” Keith says, Not Thinking about where the hand Shiro’s touching recently was.

“Do you remember the lectures on energy transference?” Shiro says, and finally lifts his gaze to meet Keith’s. It hits him violently, unembarrassed and searing.

“Did I--?” Keith says, feeling a fresh wave of heat spread down his face, and even down to his chest and shoulders, holy hell, he can’t let himself check any further. Shiro nods and Keith squeaks involuntarily. “Right.”

Shiro’s face twists momentarily and his figure wavers, like he’s not all the way present. For Shiro to express that discomfort--his is one of the strongest pain tolerances Keith knows, and he prefers to conceal his discomfort more than anything, especially after all the intrusive concerns over his health. 

“How can I help?” Keith asks.

Shiro is silent, mouth pressed flatly shut.

“You need more energy, don't you?” Keith says, heated before he takes a breath and eases his tone. “Shiro.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Shiro says. “You've already--”

“Shiro,” Keith repeats, softer. “I'm doing it. Blood or--or sex.”

“Blood’s too dangerous,” Shiro says, and finally he meets Keith’s gaze once more, eyes shining and dark. “Are you sure?”

“You promised me once that you would never give up on me,” Keith says. “And I won't give up on you either.”

Shock fills Shiro’s eyes, then he relaxes with a soft laugh, a sweet flush spreading across his face again. “I guess that really stuck with you,” he says.

“Without it--without _you_ \--my life would be a lot different,” Keith says. Without further asides, he reaches for the lube again, considering what to do. In the end, it’s inside him that he slips his fingers, frowning as he strokes searchingly. His body's relaxed in the wake of orgasm, but the renewed angle strains his wrist distractingly.

“Do you--” Shiro says, looking concerned, “--need help?”

The question strikes Keith and he halts, lifting his head up to look more squarely at Shiro. After a heartbeat, Shiro seems to realize exactly what he’s said. Keith has the pleasure of watching the blush spread once more across Shiro’s face and ears. It’s really quite cute, Keith thinks, the way spaceships are. 

“I mean--” Shiro attempts, and Keith can't help it; his sheets are going to need one hell of a washing anyways so he flops forward and buries his face in his crossed arms, body shaking with laughter. “Keith! I don't want to just--consent is very important, and it can be withdrawn in the middle of things.”

“I know,” Keith says, grinning up at Shiro. “I listen when you talk, you know. This isn't you using the power differential between our ranks and ages to get a leg over me. This is me choosing. So if you still want to give me a hand, be my guest.”

“I don't think this is how the laws of hospitality work,” Shiro says, obviously thinking about the literature course he'd tutored Keith through. But he's got the lube and warming it against his skin before he coats his fingers in it, which Keith is not going to mention is more effort than he goes to for himself.

Shiro presses up against Keith’s side in a warm, firm line, and he pauses with his fingers sliding high to the apex of Keith’s spread thighs. “Oh,” he says, and begins to draw back.

Concerned, Keith catches at Shiro’s shoulder, light enough that it’s no real restraint. Shiro halts in place and Keith waits. “Shiro?” he murmurs, head tipped back to watch Shiro’s face. Some kind of shock, maybe, Keith thinks.

“I can use the other hand,” Shiro says, staring at his lube-covered hand.

“Okay?” Keith says. “If you want, I guess. What’s wrong with this one?”

The look Shiro turns on Keith is incredulous.

“Huh,” Keith says, looking between the ring and Shiro’s arm--the prosthetic of unearthly and indeterminate origin. “They match. Well, whatever’s more comfortable for you, Shiro.”

“Really?” Shiro says.

“It’s no difference to me,” Keith says. “I have other priorities.”

Shiro stares for a long moment, then shrugs. “Alright, Keith,” he says. “It’s been a while since I drove stick but it should come back quickly.”

“You have never driven manual once in your life,” Keith says, and “wait. Was that a euphemism?”

“Yes, that was a euphemism,” Shiro says conversationally. He slips a finger into Keith more tentatively than he thinks is deserved--Keith had three fingers up his ass when he’d invoked the law of energy transference and summoned Shiro in what has to be the best accident to ever involve Keith--but maybe Shiro’d been paying more attention to other things when the matter had been at hand. Still, Shiro moves with a rising confidence, searching, and it lights up Keith’s senses in a way that has him shivering and grasping at Shiro’s arm. Emboldened, Shiro adds a second finger, curls them together. Keith’s back arches.

“You okay?” Shiro says idly, drawing his fingers out and then back again.

“Mmph,” Keith says. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Shiro says, laughing. Heat gathers in Keith’s belly again; Shiro has broad, strong hands with clever fingers that map places Keith struggles to. It’s something that Keith hadn’t thought to expect: the soft, searching expression as Shiro studies Keith’s face for his responses. Whatever he sees there reassures him, and soon he’s slipping a third finger into Keith. Each of Shiro’s fingers is _more_ than Keith’s in the best way.

Head tipping back, Keith realizes he’s rocking his hips forward to meet Shiro. Unplanned, yes, but Shiro’s expression is something like wonder.

“You can fuck me, you know,” Keith says, eyes pressed shut as he concentrates on sensation.

“But Keith,” Shiro says, bordering on shocked autopilot, “your ass.”

One eye slits wryly open. A puff of laughter escapes him. “If you do any more prep, it’ll be fisting. Which is also fine. Whatever you want will work,” Keith says. 

In his shock, Shiro curls his fingers and distracts himself with the moan that escapes from Keith--the first noise he’s really made besides speaking and breathing--and has him curling back into the shelter of Shiro’s body. They’re both hard at this point, have been for a while, but it’s harder to ignore without the polite distance between Shiro’s dick and Keith’s everything.

“You’re a real spitfire,” Shiro says without heat.

“What're you going to do about it?” Keith says.

“Hm,” Shiro says, dragging his free hand down Keith’s flank. “That’s a very good question. Depends on whether you have condoms or not.”

“Should have some from the Garrison in my footlocker,” Keith says with an idle gesture towards the space below the bed. “I did listen when you said to take advantage of freebies. Or--hm.”

“Hm?” Shiro says, raising one eyebrow solicitously.

“Or,” Keith says carefully, staring at Shiro’s eyelashes so he can look at him without really looking at him, “you can go without. Maximize the energy transfer.”

There is an actual section of the volume of the foundational text on energy transfer that considers variables such as this. Keith had always been an exemplary student; this was one of the lesser-known sections.

There are things that amplify and attenuate energy transfer between two witches; physical and emotional barriers can be more and less significant. Intent is first and foremost as a factor. 

“Keith,” Shiro says helplessly, easing off his grip on Keith’s hip where he's been unwittingly squeezing. “You don’t--”

Keith makes a face and sits up in bed, turning to press Shiro down and hover over him, meeting his gaze squarely rather than contorted as before. Shiro finds himself distracted by the strength of Keith’s thighs, and the slick trails of lube down their inner slopes left by Shiro’s own wandering fingers.

“You’re not making me do anything,” Keith says with soft voice and sharp, determined expression. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Shiro breathes.

Keith’s face goes soft at that and he leans forward to press a kiss to the corner of Shiro’s mouth, hand creeping up to the lube for a pump of it. As his hand slides down to finally grasp at Shiro, slick and careful, Shiro sighs and turns his head to make Keith’s kiss into something _more._ He wants to drown in it--Keith inexperienced but warm, enthusiastic and full of so much care, not because he thinks Shiro is fragile but because he _matters_ \--and it sends Shiro’s hand wandering, settling finally at the crease where thigh becomes cheek.

“Comfortable?” Keith says as he sits back. Shiro glories in the way muscle moves under his hand, the way Keith makes so strange a situation so easy. The way Keith fits in the palm of his hand. 

“Hmmm,” Shiro says with a cheeky squeeze. As he watches, Keith blushes, mouth opening with shock. “Yes, I think so.”

The grin Keith flashes is cocksure and provocative but before Shiro can say anything, Keith’s taken hold of him and aligned them. Then he's sinking down with the same ease he'd shown behind the controls of any aircraft. Keith’s head tilts back, displaying the long line of his throat as his jaw drops and his chest rises and falls desperately; anything Shiro might have said is consumed by the loud moan dragged forth from his throat, deep and unashamed. 

By the time Keith’s taken him to the root, they're both shaking and overwhelmed; wordlessly they linger, grasping for control against the ocean of sensation. 

Back arched and hand braced against Shiro’s hipbone, Keith peers slit-eyed at Shiro with quiet desperation. “Shiro,” he says, “please--”

He can’t deny Keith; not like this, not ever. Shiro surges up, one hand alighting on Keith’s hip and the other sliding into his hair as he kisses him deep and dirty. Unbidden, Keith’s arms wind over Shiro’s shoulders and he gives as good as he gets.

Shiro lets go of Keith’s hip, but only to let his hand wander down his back and flank; Keith breaks the kiss as he gasps for breath, eyes shut, and Shiro can't help but press kisses down the corner of his mouth, his jaw and to his throat. An unexpected impulse of possessiveness has Shiro stalling where Keith’s pulse throbs frantically, tongue darting out to taste the pure salt of his sweat.

“Whatever you want,” Keith promises, arms tightening around Shiro and hips shifting ever so much, ever so sweetly. 

They could start moving, but Shiro finds he can’t focus beyond the idea of a dark bruise on Keith’s neck; his lips are parting before he thinks of it, Keith pliant to Shiro’s attention. High enough to rise clear of the shirt collars that Keith prefers, maybe even high enough to not be hidden by Keith’s jacket. 

When Shiro brushes his fingertips across the slow-blooming mark, Keith takes a sharp breath. It satisfies some animal part of Shiro’s heart and he lies back, watching Keith’s face. Then he draws his legs up for leverage and thrusts, deep and searching. Instantly, Keith responds, raising himself up with sleek, strong thighs and dropping to meet Shiro again, and again. It’s an unpolished movement but the way Keith adapts and makes it his own is as familiar and endearing as the way he took to the bits of technique Shiro taught him.

There’s something about Keith--his honesty, his dedication, his heart--that makes Shiro want to take care of him. Whatever shape that takes. Keith’s tiring marginally--probably only Shiro and a computer with a finely tuned baseline could tell, to be honest--and Shiro wants to make this good for him, to show his gratitude for the way Keith is unrepentantly himself.

“Keith,” Shiro gasps, “can I--?”

“Do it,” Keith says, and wryly “if you keep asking permission, I’ll bite you.”

Shiro stares, stunned. “Are you--?” he begins, and Keith nips his jaw quickly. 

For a moment they stare at each other blankly, then they’re laughing together. Gripping Keith firmly by the hips so he doesn’t slip out, Shiro flips them carefully in the span of the narrow bed, enjoying the way Keith gasps and their chests slide bare and sweat-slick together.

“Tell me if it's too much,” Shiro says, one hand guiding Keith’s leg around his hip and the other bracing down by Keith’s head so he's near enough to kiss. Then he starts to move again. Like this, the burden of movement is on Shiro. After the year he’s had, Shiro’s happy to use the honed strength of his body for something other than violence. Keith, more than anyone else, he can trust with this. Even more than himself.

In the end, however, it doesn’t take as much endurance. Keith’s arms tighten around Shiro’s shoulders and gasps in his ear, spilling untouched between them. Shiro can only follow after.

-

"Ah,” Shiro says later, after they’ve both caught their breath, “good, you're still wearing it."

Keith laughs, pressed snug and sticky to his side, feeling intoxicated by the warmth of skin on skin. Shiro’s fingertips stroke the polished disc of lavender jade around his neck--a gift from an old Shirogane family friend in his youth for its link to the heavens, hoping that it might protect a young witch sung to by the stars like he belonged with them, out in the black--and left with Keith in the hopes that he too would be protected while wearing it. 

"I promised to wear it, didn't I?" Keith says, half-drowsing and shifting to remove the necklace and return it.

“It looks good on you,” Shiro says, eyes dark. He closes Keith’s fingers around the pendant, gentle but firm. “Keep it. Let it keep you safe. ”

They fall asleep like that--bodies nestled close and hands curved gently together--as the day’s light fades fully.

-

“You have Steel as an instructor?” Guiying asks one day, just before start of term. Keith lodges at the Garrison year-round; his scholarship allows for it, knowing his situation. “Kenneth Steel?”

Keith shuffles through his tablet until his schedule pops up onto screen again. “Yeah,” he says. “An intro engineering course.”

Guiying is quiet for a long moment, and distracted in a way that means she’s probably fixating on the way she died, and all the hows and whys. She died somewhere else, Keith knows, but she prefers to spend time in the sheltered courtyard. It’s a small green space, tucked enough out of the way that not everyone chooses to walk through it, even though it’s something of an oasis in the midst of the brutalist architecture that dominates the Garrison.

“I can’t ask you to not catch his attention,” Guiying says slowly, looking at her hands where they’re blue and hypoxic. “You can’t control that. None of us can. But try not to be alone with him. Do not be vulnerable where he can see it.”

“Alright,” Keith says, brow wrinkling. “I can do that, Guiying. But why?”

Guiying can only shake her head, unable to meet Keith’s eyes. She fades out of view soon after, distracted and drained.

-

“My dad was the first ghost I ever saw,” Keith admits, camped out under the stars with Shiro. Supposedly they’re doing a dry run on wilderness training that Shiro will have to be certified in by year's end, but the two bags of oversized marshmallows suggest otherwise. “At least that I remember.”

Shiro tips his head towards Keith, solicitous but unintrusive.

“Can't always tell,” Keith admits. “Could’ve seen others, before.”

Slowly, Shiro lies back; Keith copies him, marveling at the way the span of the desert pushes back the constant press of human presence. This is the view that Keith caught with his father once, so many nights spent watchful and patient like someone would come home if only they were looked for.

“Sometimes I worry about you,” Shiro says. “You’re so steady, and you know how to be independent but. You’re my friend.”

“And you're an astral witch being called out to the stars,” Keith says.

Startling, Shiro props himself up onto his elbows to stare at Keith. “How did you--?”

“Sky witches are most common in the Garrison,” Keith says shrugging. “From there it’s down to air or astral leanings. Most astral witches like to come out to the desert to enjoy the starshine.”

“That obvious?” Shiro says, laughing. 

“The marshmallows were a bit of a cue,” Keith says, shrugging but face soft. He might be grinning a little, small but wild, comfortable in the cover of darkness.

“It’s like,” Shiro says slowly, “like going about every day hearing static. Then you come out to places like this, where you can really see the stars and be seen by them, and it’s like suddenly everything is tuned correctly. The static becomes something meaningful. A conversation.”

“Sounds serious,” Keith says.

“It--can be,” Shiro says. “I should have asked you more clearly.”

“When you invited me out here?” Keith says.

“Yeah,” Shiro sighs.

“I’d have said yes,” Keith says. “If you’d asked.”

Shiro smiles at him then, sweet and a little sad. “You would, wouldn’t you?” Shiro says, impossibly soft. 

-

“I never asked Adam,” Shiro admits later. “He took me hiking once, to a gorge.”

“What was it like?” Keith asks.

“Hollow,” Shiro says. “Like he wanted me to be satisfied by the winds, and never seek the stars.”

“That sounds cruel,” Keith says.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, relaxing with a sigh in the darkness. His eyes are still honed in on the open expanse of stars. “Yeah, it is.”

-

“There’s something out there,” Keith says in the wan morning light, as he and Shiro clean up as best as they can in the cramped cubicle of a bathroom and dig up Keith’s dad’s old clothes, since everything in Shiro’s footlocker is too small for him now. The footlocker, like all of Shiro’s material possessions and assets, had been willed to Keith. It had been a kindness for a friend from one who didn’t expect to live long, one way or another. It had been a kindness Keith couldn’t bear to accept--least of all the money--and that he hopes Shiro will not ask about. Not when it’s clear that one of the two footlockers under Keith’s bed is Shiro’s, even so far out into the desert. Not when it’s clear that this stark space is where Keith has made his home, for all of the unspoken reasons that this came to be. “Out in the more remote parts of the desert.”

“What kind of thing?” Shiro says, zipping up the vest that sits snugly over the compression shirt. It’s easy to dress beside Shiro, easy to focus on Shiro’s words rather than the ways he can fit against and inside Keith. They are only friends, after all.

“It’s not a ghost,” Keith says, pondering. “Like it’s living but different; like it’s ancient and patient. It’s waiting for someone, and I can hear it calling even though it’s not waiting for me. Does that make sense?”

“As much as anything,” Shiro says, shrugging but soft. His smile catches Keith, stalls him long enough that Shiro notices and wraps him into a tender hug. Keith leans into him, hesitant, even as he lets his arms rise and wrap around Shiro’s waist. There is nothing like a Shiro hug: encompassing and secure, but also without pressure or force to keep Keith where he doesn’t want to be. It makes Keith want to stay there together. “Should we check it out? I think--there’s something I’m forgetting, something I should be looking for and warning others against.”

“Should we go to the Garrison?” Keith asks, hesitant and soft. Shiro doesn’t know what happened to Keith there--what _he_ did there--only that he’s not there anymore, adrift somewhere in the deserts instead.

“I--” Shiro says, and frowns. “I don’t know. There’s something I’m not remembering that’s telling me not to. Some instinct or memory.”

“Alright,” Keith says, and stays put in Shiro’s arms until Shiro lets go, disappearing out of the workshop to watch the sun rise. Keith may not know all of the things that Shiro can’t remember, but this he has his own knowledge of.

-

“Shiro?” Keith says, soft and hesitant. The bruises are fading from his face, but it’s still effortful to ask for any sort of help, even if it’s Shiro that Keith’s asking. “Can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” Shiro says, setting aside his tablet. “Everything going okay?”

It is and it isn’t, Keith thinks. “Guiying said something the other day, and it’s been kind of worrying me. Is there--is there any way to find any information about her?”

“I don’t think either of us would be able to access her personnel file,” Shiro muses aloud, turning back to his desk but angling himself so Keith can read the tablet over his shoulder. “We can check the archives, maybe the student paper has something.”

“Oh,” Keith says, staring wide-eyed as Shiro brings up the Garrison archives; he hadn’t really known about them, or whatever the student paper covered. He hadn’t known there _was_ a student paper.

“Something wrong?” Shiro says, glancing back at Keith even as he continues to move through the archives deftly.

“I thought you’d just point me in a direction and then leave me to it,” Keith says.

“I can do that,” Shiro says, fingers stilling, “if you want. But I think there’s something here we’re not seeing. Something important.”

After a moment, Keith nods sharply.

-

_**Engineering Student Found Dead** _

_Zhou Guiying (19) was discovered without a pulse early Monday morning. Efforts failed to resuscitate Zhou and she was pronounced dead at the scene. Investigation to follow. Memorial to be held Wednesday evening._

-

“Guys, this is a terrible idea,” they hear someone say, and then they’ve stumbled upon a trio of young Garrison students. “There’s no way they’re going to buy that we’re checking out herbs this far out, this is the desert for crying out loud.”

“Come on, Hunk,” another says. “Aren’t you earth-metal leaning? Can’t we just say that we were out-- _bonding_ \--by harvesting raw materials across all of our disciplines? And definitely not just following some weird signals out across some seriously rough terrain?”

“You guys _actually_ don’t have to be here,” the third whines reedily.

“Yeah, no,” the first says. “I mean, unfortunately it’s not hitting the town and meeting some cute girls but we gotta bond or we’re going to fail out of the Garrison.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how that works,” the second says. “Anyways, what are you even looking for out here, Pidge?”

“Something weird happened last night,” the third says, pulling out a pair of high-tech binoculars and fiddling with the settings for a moment before raising them to scan the terrain. “The Garrison tried to follow it to, well, where ever, but they must have lost track of it. _That_ is what I’m looking for out here--”

The third student freezes, angled directly at Shiro and Keith. “Who are you guys--?”

“Hi,” Shiro says. Keith exhales quietly, resigned to talking for as long as Shiro wants to question these students.

“You don’t know who this is?” the first yelps. “This is Shiro, from the Kerberos mission, total hero, not like Keith over here--”

Keith blinks at Shiro as they listen to the barrage, wondering how this stranger knows his name and face. Shiro blinks back in a muted display of shared confusion; the students carry on without noticing the exchange.

“Where are the other mission personnel?” the third says.

“I--” Shiro says, then looks away. “I don’t know. It’s a little blurry, I’m sorry.”

The third stares Shiro down, smaller than the other students but carrying a more honed focus. “What do you--”

Then a ward triggers, vibrating audibly and blinking a slow bright green light that slowly circles the bracelet it’s attached to. “The Garrison must have noticed us,” the third says, casting about for options.

Shiro looks at Keith; Keith looks back. A challenging grin settles into place on Shiro’s mouth and he tips his head back toward the bike that they’d deboarded shortly before stumbling upon the students.

“Think you can get us out of here?” Shiro says.

“Yeah,” Keith says, amusement rising. He settles easily at the controls, but lightly enough to shift forward or backward in the seat easily. “Trust me to do that?”

“I do,” Shiro says, and climbs on just behind Keith. He doesn’t press forcefully against his back, only firmly as he leans forward to ensure that he can reach the side grips. Shiro’s still close enough to radiate heat all the way down Keith’s spine; then Shiro turns enough to call out to the students. “We’re heading out, if you want to join us.”

“Join--” the first begins to yelp with confliction. The third reaches out and slaps his shoulder forcefully, silencing the train of thought and sending him forward to the bike. “The name is Lance.”

Shiro nods, watching the Garrison students try to figure out where to sit.

“The nervous guy’s Hunk,” the third says, scrambling up behind Shiro, “and I’m Pidge.”

“Nice to meet you,” Shiro says, smiling apologetically without removing his hold on the bike. The dust clouds rising up in the distance are growing close very quickly.

“Hi,” Hunk says with an awkward wave. Lance settles behind Pidge, and Hunk climbs up behind him; his weight is enough to shift the bike’s balance, sending the tail crashing down into the dirt with enough juddering force that they all flinch. “Sorry!”

“Keith?” Shiro says.

The comfortable tension in Keith’s shoulders as he gets the bike started and up in the air is enough of an answer.

-

It’s pure magic, watching Keith take the cliff dive and do it _right,_ even as the students’ screams are carried back by the wind. Like the adoring song of the stars. The line of Keith’s back is comfortable and controlled; without looking, Shiro knows the joy Keith has, flying high and flying _well._ Behind him Shiro can only laugh, joyous and unrestrained, holding all his praise and proud words safely under his tongue.

Later, he thinks. Later. Distracting Keith at a moment like this is in no one’s interest.

-

The call in the desert leads them further from the Garrison. The stars sing out their welcome--the near familiar ones, and still more that spin in far-off galaxies--and they find something living and not-living, cosmic and chaotic. The Blue Lion’s eyes are watchful and patient; even to one so ancient, it was a long time to wait.

“I think it wants to take us somewhere,” Lance says.

They go.

-

“How long have we been sleeping?” the Princess of a decimated people asks.

None of them have an answer for her.

-

Shiro and Keith don’t always start off their nights together, but they end them in the span of the same walls. Shiro spends hour after compulsive hour strengthening his body, now that the charm meant to mitigate the dyskinesia via electrical stimulation has been lost to the Galra; there is nothing to do but to fall back on the basic mechanics of treatment. Muscle fibers contract; energy released allows the tension to slacken. Keith asks Coran for a dietary source of Calcium and ends up with a gummy of sorts, sweet and textured more like agar than anything else; Shiro’s first bite is with grim determination, but the subsequent bites are more easy. There is worse to be found in Altean cuisine.

These are oddities in their age of interwoven science and magic--of careful charms and extended release medication, of careful casting and portable medical devices--but it is a necessity of adaptation. They are far from home, after all.

Keith doesn’t go to Shiro’s room that first night intended to make anything more out of it. He goes to check in with Shiro, to stay just long enough that they’re both reassured but not to force company on Shiro when he wants it least. But then he stands to leave and Shiro puts his hand on Keith’s shoulder, a gentler touch than the slap he’d given after they’d finally formed Voltron. It’s the same slap Shiro gave him when they flew together--one of those rare times--or worked through a particularly hard sim and finally completed it.

“Why don’t you stay a bit longer?” Shiro says, eyes dark and fond. Keith doesn’t have it in his heart to deny Shiro of anything, this least of all. _This_ small thing that is the furthest from a hardship, even on so long and seemingly endless of days.

It’s a hug until it’s not, and then it’s a kiss pressed fondly and absently to the crest of Keith’s cheekbone. Keith returns the kiss to the corner of Shiro’s mouth. Then they’re slipping out of their clothes and moving more deliberately against each other. The slide only gets sweeter as time passes, as they burn for each other and gather sweat that only eases the way.

Here is the truth about magic like this: nothing is truly infinite, but this is the closest anything can come. Transference costs in intention and trust, beyond the base amount of energy given up; there is no limit to what can be carried, so long as it is given with no malice or ill will.

For Keith, to do so for Shiro is easier than anything else. To ease Shiro’s burdens however much is worth a great deal. 

When Shiro presses his lips to Keith’s pulse, Keith shivers and lets his head fall back, opening up access to his neck. Shiro traces the path of tendon pulled into prominence with his mouth, up to Keith’s jaw and back to his mouth.

“What do you want?” Shiro says, slipping his arm around Keith’s waist and gathering him more closely.

“You,” Keith says, low and hoarse. “Just you.”

The next kiss Shiro presses to Keith’s mouth sets him slowly on fire from the heart out. It warms and nourishes the parts of him that have been forgotten and starved; everything he is given he returns freely. Shiro begins to move again, heavy and deliberate in the best way. Keith clings to his shoulders and moves with him.

It’s simpler, this time. They have none of the supplies of before, and with the adrenaline burnt out from their veins, none of the energy needed to investigate the toiletries supplied in the en suites attached to each room designated for a Paladin. They’ve done this before, even if differently, and it’s easier to fall into now. Comfortable.

Keith comes first, hot and wet between them. Shiro pauses after the last aftershocks roll through Keith, to see if he needs time to recover. Instead Keith tightens his grip around Shiro’s shoulders and begins moving again. It’s a more careless slide this time, but it’s purposeful enough. With a sigh Shiro follows Keith down. Keith kisses him as he catches his breath again, cradling his face in his hands. Without breaking the sequence of kisses, Shiro grasps Keith’s hip and shifts his weight so that they’re lying on their sides instead of with all of Shiro’s considerable bulk over Keith’s slimmer body.

It’s Shiro who eventually gets up and rustles up a warm, damp washcloth out of the bathroom and gets them cleaned up. Then he slides back into bed with Keith, skin to soft skin. Shiro marvels that the strength and scars of his body don’t cut into Keith, who only relaxes into the contact.

This time, they fall asleep with Keith on his side and Shiro on his back, on the side closer to the door; they drift off with their faces tipped together as they talk of endless, idle things. Waking up is easier still than the first morning was. Neither is as convinced that the night and day before were memories born of cruel, futile hope, and it’s easier to share a bathroom after a first run through. Spending time side by side like this is easy in a way that many other things aren’t.

“You’re still tired,” Shiro says when they get up. Keith shrugs but doesn’t deny the aches of preceding days, not when Shiro is clearly itching to run through more calisthenics.

“I’ll go back to my room,” Keith says, and disappears out the door with a casual wave. He doesn’t comment about the way that Shiro’s staring at his Paladin’s uniform where it’s been set neatly aside. The Garrison likes to subsume its military functions with the spirit of innovation and discovery; at the end of the day, its witches and scientists were still members of an armed force, and must be able to progress through hostile training environments within uniform. To be a Paladin is no different.

Keith is much more awake by the time he settles down in his room next door. Allura’s voice calls soon after, and he’s up.

It’s a long day, but staying at Shiro’s side throughout it is worth something. So are the nights.

-

“Excuse me, Commander, could I have a word?” Shiro’s voice is even, expression congenial.

“Of course, Shiro,” Sam Holt says, smiling. “Why don’t you come on in and shut the door?”

“Thank you, sir,” Shiro says. The door clicks firmly after him and they’re quiet for the handful of seconds that it takes for Shiro to settle into the chair in front of Sam’s desk.

“What’s going on?” Sam asks, after a moment when it’s clear that Shiro doesn’t know how to start off.

“A student that I mentor is abyssal leaning,” Shiro says, watching how it hits Sam: eyes widening, almost gasping with shock. The abyssal leaning is one of the least common leanings, even outside of the Garrison. It’s subtle, but Sam sets his jaw against an automatic wave of concern, to listen to what Shiro has to say. “They raised some concerns about one of the ghosts present at the Garrison.”

“Do you know the name?” Sam says, turning to his keyboard.

“Zhou Guiying,” Shiro says. “She died about seven years ago.”

“Seven years?” Sam murmurs to himself as he types. “Unfortunately, Colleen and I were on sabbatical that year; we were on the East Coast doing research. But I can check the database.”

“Thank you, sir,” Shiro says.

“You know me,” Sam says. “‘Sam’ is fine, Shiro.”

Shiro shakes his head and laughs. “Only in space, sir.”

“As long as you’re flying--” Sam says, then the levity drops from his voice. “Does--does your mentee know that their ghost is a suicide?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. Sam stares at him. “That’s the thing. He’s got a strong enough leaning that ghosts aren’t always distinguishable from the living, but he’s mentioned that she’s different.”

“Are you worried about this ghost affecting him? Without him knowing?” Sam presses.

“No, sir,” Shiro says. “I should probably ask him what exactly Guiying said that was so odd. The way he talks about her is more like a helper ghost, one of the ones that had an accidental death and now looks out for the living. I think she helps him with engineering problems outside of our tutoring sessions.”

Sam turns thoughtfully back to his keyboard, and rapidly taps out some additional searches, frowning thoughtfully at the results. “That would be the best course of action from your end, and I’ll continue searching from this end. There are some anomalies here; profiles connected to deaths within the Garrison should be archived in a way that preserves information in event of further investigation or the presence of those with abyssal leanings. But it’s not. I’ll keep looking into it.”

“Thank you again, sir,” Shiro says, rising.

“Oh,” Sam says. “If your mentee happens to be your little spitfire that’s got the whole base riled up, I look forward to meeting him.”

“I’ll let him know,” Shiro says, laughing.

-

The other Paladins are, as a whole, an interesting group of individuals with greatly contrasting characteristics and capacity. Pidge is the loud sort of brilliant, the kind that shines in a way that can only be concealed for so long. Hunk is a quieter sort of genius, steadfast as a well-engineered engine. Lance’s venom is nothing new, if unmemorable. They form Voltron together. Mostly.

Somehow, none of them notice how long Shiro and Keith disappear into each other’s rooms, nor how regularly.

“Hey, did you guys find some new scent in the toiletries?” Hunk asks one morning.

“No?” Shiro says, exchanging a look with Keith. “Why do you ask that?”

“You smell different,” Hunk says. “Not like vanillin and spice, more like hot iron. Maybe a hint of lavender. But like. Just the two of you?”

“You know, Hunk?” Shiro says carefully, trying not to publicly think about what he and Keith had done in the shower together the night before, “I don’t smell anything different.”

Keith cocks his head thoughtfully. “I do and I don’t,” he says. “Can you smell magic, Hunk?”

“Actually, yeah,” Hunk says. “Runs in the family.”

“Shiro’s been helping me with some castings,” Keith says, which isn’t strictly a lie. Shiro finds himself automatically nodding in agreement. “That’s probably what you’re smelling.”

“Huh,” Hunk says, and then is distracted by the way Pidge stumbles into the kitchen groggily.

Shiro and Keith glance at each other quickly, then away, smothering a nervous, unexpected laughter. Between the ring that Keith doesn’t stop wearing and the frequency and amount of energy transfer, Shiro and Keith are perpetually wreathed in each other’s magic, to the point that it more or less mixes freely.

“Did you notice?” Shiro murmurs.

Keith shakes his head. “Did you?”

“No,” Shiro says, smiling bemusedly. “I should’ve.”

Before Keith can say anything more, the others settle at the table. “What’d we miss?” Hunk says, setting out new servings of space goo.

“Nothing much,” Shiro says. “Still figuring out today’s training schedule.”

-

Keith’s in the courtyard where Shiro usually finds him talking to Guiying. “The roof?” Keith says, after Shiro’s told him. “But they’re usually attached to where they died, unless they’ve left something behind that’s keeping them anchored.”

“What’re you thinking?” Shiro says, watching Keith walk backwards until his legs hit the bench where he sits and chats with Guiying between classes. Then he starts moving forward again, scanning the area visible from the bench.

“If Guiying left something here, she’d have kept it in sight, wouldn’t she? Something important,” Keith says distractedly.

“Right,” Shiro says, and starts looking too.

Keith’s the one who finds it, in the end. Guiying must have been closer in height to him--to have found a loose brick in the courtyard wall, protruding barely more than its neighbors but lodged in a way that doesn’t make the damaged mortar obvious.

“Shiro--” Keith says, face twisting reluctantly; he doesn’t have quite the leverage to pull the brick loose. This, at least, Shiro can help him with. He steps back, brick in hand, and lets Keith retrieve his prize: an old phone sealed in a sturdy plastic bag. The phone’s old enough to have a more rounded body than is currently sold; this more than anything is a sign of its age.

Carefully, Keith tries to turn the phone on. Dead. “I don’t think I have a charger for this,” Shiro says apologetically. “But I might know someone who does.”

“Okay,” Keith says, and his eyes finally flick up to meet Shiro’s. “Can we go to them now?”

Shiro glances up, looks at the sun slanting alongside the building walls. “We might have to wait a little but yeah, yeah we can.”

“Wait?” Keith says.

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “Office hours.”

-

“That’s an interesting knife,” Keith says. Ulaz turns away from the control panel to draw his weapon and raise it up for closer inspection. 

“Each member of my order carries a ceremonial blade such as this,” Ulaz says. “It was crafted by a founding member, who possessed an-- _affinity_ for forging luxite.”

“Nice,” Keith says, and then the proximity alarms begin to wail.

When Ulaz is gone, there is no one left to answer questions on life inside the empire. Worry gathers within Keith and weighs him down; Shiro asks him but he cannot lay down his concerns on top of the burdens Shiro already carries. When they share a bed, they sleep pressed over-close together in wordless apology for the things they cannot bring themselves to speak of.

-

Sam Holt has a compatible phone charger, in his office even.

“The students like to bequeath them to me,” Sam says bemusedly, showcasing the desk drawer devoted to neatly-packaged cables. “For themselves and their cohort, in their time of need.”

Keith doesn’t know what to say to that, but beside him Shiro looks comfortable. Relaxed, almost, which is more than can be said of some of the brass, who’d been ready to send Keith packing to the group home. If it came to that, if it fell to Keith aging out of the system, he’s not sure there’s anywhere he’d he want to go back to except the desert.

“Commander Holt is one of the Garrison’s more popular lecturers,” Shiro says, “when he’s not leading missions with the space program.”

Sam laughs warmly. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Shiro,” he says, and turns conspiratorially to Keith. “Shiro piloted most of those missions. I’ll never fly with another, if I have anything to say about it.”

At that, Keith can’t help but smile. “They say he’s the best, sir,” he says, aglow with pride for Shiro.

“That he is,” Sam says sagely.

“Well,” Shiro says, hand landing firmly on Keith’s shoulder. “There is someone who might be better than me. Or will be.”

Keith turns, staring slack-jawed at Shiro, and then the phone on Sam’s desk chimes to life. For a moment, Keith meets Guiying’s gaze in the reflection on the window. Then Sam and Shiro cluster in around the phone and she’s gone.

“Alright,” Sam says. “Let’s see what’s on here.”

-

-

“Each blade is linked to its owner’s life,” Kolivan says sorrowfully. “Through the Trials, blade and initiate are linked by quintessence.”

Keith considers the blade in his hand and wonders what happened to its previous owner--or owners, however many of them there were, and none of them bound to it afterward.

“Come,” Kolivan says, burying decaphoebs of grief with determined necessity. “There is a new mission.”

-

Keith asked Shiro once, if he he remembered what had happened to him while imprisoned by the Galra. But it was before Shiro had remembered much, and it was clear that forgetting so much both worried and disturbed him greatly. And so Keith had let his questions die on his tongue, and put his will towards Shiro had needed, to being the sword that Voltron needed.

The arm that the Galra took was the one where Shiro’s treatment band had sat; the arm on which symptoms were most prominent. Still, it was part of Shiro, and sometimes Keith wondered if its loss was linked somehow to Shiro’s ring. Standing in an unknown facility, surrounded by pods filled with youth-faced and dark-haired Shiros, unscarred where they rest, Keith realizes that he hadn’t understood the fullness of the situation. The clones have the same thread of quintessence that Keith knows to be Shiro’s, shining and pure.

“Hello, Keith,” Shiro says, voice low and eyes burning with violet light.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Shiro,” Keith says, swears it. “We just have to get back to the others--”

“Actually,” Shiro says, energy coiling like clouds gathering for a lightning strike, “neither of us is leaving here.”

Shiro charges forward before he finishes speaking and Keith’s heart drops, even as he sets himself in motion too.

-

“Can I--” Shiro says, stops short. Prods the unidentifiable material that is allegedly meatloaf on his meal tray. “Do you mind if I read your star chart?”

“Sure?” Keith says, staring down his own serving of alleged meatloaf. Under the press of his fork, the meatloaf bends and bends until finally the tines tear dramatically through. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a thing we do,” Shiro says, grabbing his tablet and setting it to project some helpful graphics involving constellations. “I say _we_ as an astral witch but. I think there are others besides us who look for answers in the ways the stars hang in the skies when born.”

“What do you need?” Keith asks.

“Your birthday’s October 23rd?” Shiro says. Keith nods. “Do you happen to know what time you were born?”

For a long moment, Keith is quiet, setting his fork down thoughtfully. He’s quiet long enough that it makes Shiro nervous, gearing up to apologize and say not to worry about it, it’s not important. The times when Keith talks about his family are few and far between, and the bitterness of remembering often overpowers the sweetness of memory. Finally, Keith begins to laugh, soft and low and endless, until he’s leaning forward in his seat and eyes welling helplessly.

“Keith?” Shiro says, bemused.

“Sorry,” Keith says, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “No one knows exactly when I was born. My dad’s the one who delivered me.”

“Wasn’t your dad a firefighter?” Shiro says.

“Yeah,” Keith says, hiccuping with laughter. “But he had paramedic training and I wasn’t the last baby he ever delivered so. Sarge used to call him _babyhands_ sometimes, because of that.”

“Wow,” Shiro says, trying not to imagine having to unexpectedly deliver anyone’s child, let alone having it be a repeated occurrence.

“Anyways,” Keith says, face slackening finally but still aglow. “He said that once the labor was done, he stood up again with me in his arms and the sun was just barely starting to set. The house was getting cold and he hurried to get me clean and wrapped up. Five o’clock, I think, that time of year. Give or take half an hour.”

“Okay,” Shiro says, thumbing through some sections on his tablet and inputting different values.”

“What’s this?” Keith says, stuffing a forkful of alleged meatloaf into his mouth. If he focuses on something else, maybe he’ll be able to chew long enough not to choke when he swallows, then re-evaluate methods of consumption. Ketchup seems to loom in his future.

“Well,” Shiro says with a distracted grin, “some of the tech these days is less susceptible to magical damage. So this is my much more portable modern spellbook. Easily shared--there’s nothing really dangerous in here, to be honest. The really specialized portions that astral witches tend to use after they’ve learned the basics is the star charts. They’ll list what’s what so you don’t have to run the calculations every time.”

“Lazy,” Keith says teasingly. A large serving of ketchup descends onto his tray; it’s manageable, Keith thinks, and starts in on it.

“Hush,” Shiro says. “I actually do know how to do those calculations. We’d be here hours after curfew if I did them all by hand right now.”

“Hm,” Keith, reading the tablet upside-down. “That’s not my birth year, I just have a late birthday.”

“I forgot you were an early admission,” Shiro says with an apologetic look, adjusting the year selected. This time, Keith nods approvingly and Shiro continues. “And you’re local?”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “My dad was a firefighter attached to the Garrison.”

“Right,” Shiro says, adding the final bit of data and setting the tablet down as it runs the calculations.

“What now?” Keith says, watching values and designations fill the screen progressively.

“We see the way the stars and planets sang to you when you were small and new,” Shiro says, looking down with an absent smile as he takes in the first results. “Scorpio sun,” he says, “so, your conscious self--for resilience in the face of darkness. Virgo moon--unconscious self--for clarity and devotion. Aries rising--how others perceive you, how you’ll grow--a catalytic force.”

Keith huffs out an amused laugh. “What’s that mean?”

“Basically?” Shiro says, laughing. “You’re unstoppable.”

“Not sure that’s meant to be a great revelation,” Keith says. Shiro shrugs, glancing down at the tablet still generating information. “Tell me about you?”

“Me?” Shiro says. “What about me, Keith?”

“What story do your stars tell, Shiro?” Keith says.

“Oh,” Shiro says, quieter and abruptly pensive. “Pisces sun, brilliant and unorthodox; Cancer moon, emotionality, particularly in security and--and trust; Capricorn rising, ambition.”

Keith peers at Shiro, thoughtful about the spaces left open by Shiro’s word choice. “I’m betting the others that use star charts have some different words tagged onto those things, just for you.”

“You’re not wrong,” Shiro says.

“Jealousy,” Keith says.

“They’re not always wrong about what they say, though,” Shiro says.

“There’s truth,” Keith says, “and there’s twisting it to feel better about where you stand. Doesn’t always end up in the same place.”

“You’re right,” Shiro says, laughing a little.

“What else do the stars say about you?” Keith asks.

“For one, we could be very good friends,” Shiro says. Keith cocks his head curiously. “Scorpio-Pisces compatibility.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Keith says, chin tipped up in wordless challenge.

More than anything else, this cheers Shiro and softens the tension sharpening the line of his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

-

Shiro had mentioned that Allura was right, the Black Lion _did_ take more out of its pilot, but Keith could never have imagined it would take so much. Shiro’s gone, the others say, but Keith still hasn’t seen his ghost. He knows Shiro would come for him, if he could. Even if it was nothing more than the barest glimpse, like the last sight of his dad. Through it all, the ring sits on Keith’s finger like something sleeping.

There’s a quiet horror to losing Red. Even now, it feels like she’s more in tune with him anymore, mirrored down to his quintessence. He doesn’t understand how Black can take so easily to him, has only known him from the single desperate time he’d needed Black’s help to save Shiro’s life on a desolate planet. These days, when Keith doesn’t have obligations with the team, he’s out searching the black for whatever trace he might find of Shiro. He finds himself falling into deep, dreamless sleeps in the Black Lion that hardly seem to refresh the reservoir of his energy.

Keith finds himself worrying about whether Shiro has enough of his energy, without the invocation and transference that had become normal; things can’t have gone too wrong however, not with the ring strong and still-warm around Keith’s finger. 

If Shiro were irretrievably gone, the ring would lose all its capacity and become brittle enough to crumble to the touch. Even if it’s too many kinds of wrong that Shiro’s not reaching out, not in any way that Keith’s figured out yet. In a way, it’s like going back to the desert. Stark, harsh and lonely. Keith can only fall back to a manual search, sifting through starfields and scattered debris for hope.

Black’s attention turns outward, away. _There,_ Black seems to rumble. Look there.

A single Galran fighter, adrift in space span and galaxy’s span away from its home fleet. Near to dead in the water, resources spent. Something infinitesimal calls out to Keith. He turns the Lion towards it.

-

The night before the plan falls into motion, the Castle is quiet. The Blades and Slav slumber in the wing set aside for guests; Coran ushers Allura off to bed, fond as anyone who’d watched a child grow through childhood, who’d been entrusted with her care. The Garrison trio sit up watching Pidge shuffle through her tarot cards, trying to find some clue as to how the next day will go. Lance and Hunk are unusually quiet; the cards are unwilling to speak, but Pidge continues to shuffle them with increasing desperation.

“Why don’t you guys head to bed?” Shiro says when he walks by, Keith at his side. “Best thing you can do right now is get a good night’s rest.”

“Alright,” Hunk says, putting his hand on Pidge’s shoulder. “Come one, guys.”

Shiro and Keith watch them file off, lingering as they disperse to their rooms.

“Anything I can help you with,” Keith says, eyes dark, “before you hit the sack? Top up your tank?”

“I’d hate to keep you from your rest,” Shiro says, desire settling low in his belly.

“The Garrison liked to mention the depths of my capacity,” Keith says mildly. “I’m sure it would be of no issue.”

Without looking back, Keith begins to make his way down the hallway. Grinning fondly to himself, Shiro follows Keith into his room and taps the lock mechanism. Then he steps up to Keith’s back as he drops his shirt to the side--close enough that when they breathe, they bump against one another--until Keith reaches back and laces their fingers together.

“Hi,” Keith says, soft in the dim room.

In response, Shiro raises up one pair of interlaced hands and kisses the vulnerable flash of wrist peeking out from beneath Keith’s glove. Immediately, Keith responds, hands clenching.

“What am I going to do with you?” Shiro says, fondness and amusement coloring his tone.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Keith says casually, “maybe fuck my thighs?”

Shiro can’t really be blamed for the way he reacts to that. No jury would convict him, not with Keith laughing rustily as he’s stripped and pressed down into the bed. As he removes his own clothing, Shiro watches Keith shuck his gloves as well. Lean muscle ripples as Keith arches his back, trying to launch the gloves over his shoulder without hitting Shiro in the face. 

There’s nothing self-conscious about the way Keith moves when he’s like this, bare except for his scars and the jewelry that ties them together by gift and by casting. He’s beautiful. 

Like this, Shiro thinks idly, Keith looks like--

he can’t admit, not aloud, not to himself--

like _his._

But they have no time for confessions like that, least of all if Shiro falls in the hot copper violence of the fight or to a slower death. Not if Keith is to take on the full duties of the head of Voltron. Not if Zarkon falls, or if he doesn’t. When the stars sing Shiro home, his words will not reach Keith. So Shiro arranges Keith carefully, thighs crossed to narrow the aperture at their apex, and slicked with Altean all-purpose lotion. Shiro applies the lotion to himself and finally-- _finally--_ slides home, hand streaking lotion as it slides around to grasp Keith firmly.

It’s easy to move together like this, easy to feel Keith arch back into him at the first clean thrust, the way he always does. As if Keith is alway surprised by Shiro’s help and gifts (however small) as when their friendship was something new. It makes Shiro want to take care of Keith; braced over him, Shiro thrusts between his thighs and strokes the length of him, swallowing his cries hungry mouth. Gratifyingly, Keith is just as hungry for Shiro’s kisses.

They move together like the moon pulls the tide, endless and sinuous. Tonight, at least, they don’t drag things out. Keith comes first, breath hitching. A handful of thrusts later, Shiro follows him down in a controlled fall that leaves him curled over Keith. For a long time they lie together, pressed together with simulated gravity and drying fluids. Their cheeks brush softly. It’s a single point of contact in a series, and just as addictive as the way they breathe together.

“Stay?” Keith asks finally, eyes hooded and tone deliberately casual. The jade pendant has fallen to the bed, its leather cord pooling enticingly around his throat. It shouldn’t make interest gather low and promising, Shiro thinks, but it does. Physiological impossibilities due to refractory periods aside, the night is slipping away.

Shiro nods. “We should wash up first,” he says. They climb out of bed together and stand in the spacious cubicle that serves as the en suite. Clustered around the sink, their elbows brush as they wipe up the worst of the mess. Then it’s back to the bed: Shiro on the outside edge and Keith tucked between the wall and against Shiro. Sleep comes easily. Morning comes too soon.

-

Shiro’s back arches as he screams. They’re all screaming as the beam of malevolent energy--corrupted quintessence, they will find out later--hits Voltron, but Shiro’s cry is the worst.

He’s carried enough pain with him for long enough that his tolerance is high as his determination. Pain is an endless tide, and only rarely does it come down in a way that Shiro can’t brace for and dodge, however relentless the pain is. Keith has learned to read Shiro’s small noises: the tide of his breathing, and bitten-off cries. The scream and the silence mean that whatever’s happened, it’s gone far beyond anything they’ve faced together.

It takes too long to tow the Black Lion back to the Castle, to escape the remnants of the Galra flagship and its escort. Keith is on the ground running before anyone else, footsteps echoing, and calling for Shiro. The others read his panic and follow his pace as closely as they can.

No one answers. By the time they reach the cockpit, it’s empty except for the bayard, still inserted into the dashboard from when Keith and Shiro brought forth the Blazing Sword together.

“Shiro?” Keith whispers once more, ragged and searching for a trace that will tell him where Shiro’s gone, that he _is_ gone. The Lion is silent. The others are silent as they leave. Keith falls hard to his knees and tries to breathe through the pain.

-

“This is very serious,” Sam says, face pale. “This is--”

Beside him, Shiro’s face is stony, set with a determination to set things right. “Is there anything in the file that would correspond to this information?”

“I haven’t received access to it yet,” Sam says. “It was considered a low priority issue, but with this--”

“That’s unusual,” Shiro says. “Concerningly so. Can you back this information up--”

“Already done,” Sam says, removing a USB from his computer and tucking it nonchalantly into his wallet. “To a secure non-affiliated cloud network and an offline storage area.”

“How about--” Shiro says, and pauses when Sam catches sight of Keith and stops short.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says ruefully speaking. “Technically speaking, we shouldn’t be discussing this in front of you, Keith.”

Keith’s shifting his weight to stand up when Shiro’s hand falls once more to his shoulder, anchoring him in place reassuringly. “Respectfully speaking, sir,” Shiro says. “We wouldn’t know of this issue without Keith’s assistance. His knowledge is another avenue of interest.” 

Sam sighs, but it transforms into a chuckle before long. “Right you are, Shiro,” he says. “Keith, I’m sorry to ask this, but if you could keep this under wraps for now--we’ll continue investigating this.”

“Yes, sir,” Keith says, watchful and obedient for now. There are too many unknowns, even with Shiro’s word that Commander Holt is someone who can be trusted.

-

Guiying is crying in the recording, but her voice is clear enough. And so is Professor Steel and his words, voice less tempered by time.

“I told you,” Steel says, falsely easygoing. “Nothing you do will change this.”

The recording goes on for some time, but is stopped at that point. It is dated three days before Guiying’s death.

“What is this?” Commander Carr says with steely tone.

“This is an informal request for the release of Zhou Guiying’s personnel file,” Sam says genially. “Following the discovery of her personal effects, it has been deemed necessary to re-open the investigation into the circumstances of Cadet Zhou’s death.”

“I strongly advise you to step back out the door and reconsider your approach,” Carr says. “Until you can behave appropriately to your position within the Garrison and have considered the repercussions of raising this topic.”

“Very well, Commander,” Sam says, and fiddles with his tablet. Carr’s tablet chimes with a notification.

“What is this?” Carr says, severe expression sharpening.

“That is a formal demand,” Sam says, “following the courtesy request. You have three days to furnish the complete and unaltered personnel file of Zhou Guiying.”

Without another word, Sam exits the office; Shiro and Keith immediately fall into step behind him. They stride down the crowded hall together until they reach an empty stretch and finally Sam sighs and slows, looking aged. He’s older than he normally looks; the fitness requirements for the space programs mean he’s trimmer than most of his age bracket.

“I’ve always disliked the politics aspect of this,” Sam says. “You boys be careful now, people react unpredictably when they get cornered like this.”

“Still up for dinner and a spar?” Shiro says. Keith nods. “We’ll be fine, sir, will you be okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Sam says, pensive expression deepening the longer he watches them. “You’re the ones I’m worried about.”

Before the evening meal’s through, Keith’s tablet chimes with a notification that Steel is going on indefinite leave and that his courses will be covered by other instructors. Foreboding settles in low in Keith’s belly, but theres’s nothing he can do but try and return Shiro’s reassuring look and eat the last of his potato wedges. 

-

“Officially, no one besides myself and Commander Holt should know,” Shiro says that night as they stretch together.

“And unofficially?” Keith asks.

“Unofficially, people may already know,” Shiro says, “based off of your proximity to me. This is something that has traditionally been buried by the system.”

“That’s wrong,” Keith says, and even as he says it knows how young it makes him sound.

Shiro only looks tired and proud, however. “I know,” he says. “And that’s why we’re taking this on with you.”

-

“Shiro,” Keith says desperately, these words that he needs to say tearing themselves out of his heart to hang in the scant space between them, “you’re my brother. I love you.”

-

If the days spent alone in the desert mourning Shiro are bad, they’re worse with Keith in the Black Lion and surrounded by people who’ve on from losing Shiro and expect him to do so too.

Getting Shiro back--it’s better than that, except when it’s not. Keith wonders if they’ve grown apart, if they’re too different of people now. If he has changed too much for Shiro, if he’s the one who can’t put down the need to act. Even at the beginning, back at the Garrison, they’d known that Keith would never be able to do the pageantry the way that Shiro could. Shiro knew how to put a smile on his face and subsume himself in the showmanship of it, after all; that was why the Garrison wanted to ground him but keep him in the public’s eye.

Still, the Black Lion rejects Shiro. Keith wonders if that’s part of the tension, the strangeness with which they interact. And the Blades need him, especially now that they’ve let their presence become known. Keith thinks--maybe it’s time to learn what he can of his unknown mother’s people. Maybe this way he can force the Black Lion’s hand, without forcing more turmoil on a team that wants more stability than a volatile element like himself can bring. 

They’ve said it themselves; he’s hot-headed, he will burn them all with his carelessness. And Voltron is a _protector._

It’s a relief when it finally happens. It hurts more than it has any right to when they just let him go. But he asked for this. And so he leaves.

-

Meeting Shiro again in the desert had been a change from the Shiro Keith had bade goodbye on the launchpad of Kore I. Meeting Shiro in a Galran fighter dead in the water, months after he’d disappeared and with no more answers to the _why _s and _wherefore_ s than before--it’s a different sort of change, and one that Keith can’t quite understand.__

__Shiro’s hair is too long, and his face unshaven. He doesn’t want to be seen by the others; he only wants Keith. That’s something Keith can live with, can be happy with. Shiro has always put so much on himself; Keith would follow him to the end of things, if it meant he could be at Shiro’s side. To be there for Shiro is worth a great deal._ _

__They hadn’t showered much together, before, but they’d done it. Sometimes laughing in neighboring stalls at the Garrison, as they scrubbed down after training; sometimes slick and pressed together, in the days that came after the Garrison. Shiro’s exhausted. His legs won’t hold him--the hand-shaped burn on one is another new injury that Keith doesn’t know, not yet, but with care it will heal and fade back--but Keith can steady him in the meantime._ _

__The paladins have something that passes for a sports drink--it tastes like lemonade with lavender elements, and flows down the throat like syrup--that Keith encourages Shiro to drink in countless small sips, even as Keith strips them down and gets them into the octagonal cubicle that counts as a shower on an Altean castle-ship. Shiro’s quiet, but he submits himself to Keith’s ministrations, even leans into his hands while he works the dirt clear from Shiro’s hair._ _

__Eventually, they’re as close to towelled-off as they can get, and patched-up to boot. Keith considers their options and helps Shiro over to the bed to dress. Shiro sinks into the mattress with a sigh, and reaches out for Keith when he kneels to help Shiro into soft, spare clothes._ _

__“Shiro?” Keith says, rising and drifting closer._ _

__“Stay,” Shiro says, shutting his eyes as his hand closes around Keith’s. He tugs, strength coiled and waiting. “Please.”_ _

__Keith lets himself be guided forward, dialling down the lights and settling down against Shiro’s warm, bare chest. Even know, their gathered scars can still seem soft in circumstances like these. Shiro’s arms wrap around Keith; Keith tucks himself carefully close. He doesn’t want the sharp parts of himself to hurt Shiro._ _

__They fall asleep like that: skin pressed to skin, and breathing together. Keith can only hope it’s enough for now._ _

__-_ _

__In the morning, Keith finds himself drawn into Shiro’s arms, sprawling across him bodily. Shiro forgets his injured leg and Keith gentles him, settling artfully across Shiro’s lap._ _

__“Good morning,” Keith says, rocking gently and deliberately. Shiro rumbles up at him, blinking blearily; his hands close around Keith’s slim hips, almost spanning them. His attention flickers up and down as he realizes this, and his grip tightens just past snug._ _

__“Keith,” Shiro says, sleep-rough. He focuses finally on meeting Keith’s eyes and his hair spills long across the pillow as he tips his head back invitingly. His mouth is hot and distracted--fingers squeezing in wordless reminder, Keith almost hopes they’ll leave traces, except Shiro might frown over them later--and Keith continues moving, even as he reaches up, seeks something to ease the slide of them._ _

__Finally, his hand slips down between them, slick and generous. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take much to carry them both over the precipice. It’s been a long time since they last moved like this together. It’s been a long time since the last fight against Zarkon. Under Keith’s attention, Shiro comes first, spilling hot across Keith’s hand and his own belly. Keith follows soon after, curling like a great shield over Shiro._ _

__For a long time they stay there, catching their breath. Finally Keith rises from Shiro’s lap so that he can clean them up, hips pleasantly sore, and stops short. “Shiro?” he says with rising alarm. “Is something wrong?”_ _

__Shiro looks up at him, at the ring still secure on his finger. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I can still feel you but it’s different. Filtered down.”_ _

__Keith has no answer explaining the change, no matter how long they continue to share a bed, and even when they don’t._ _

__-_ _

__Keith’s studying alone in the library the first time one of the officers approaches, staring derisively down at him. “So, you’re the little snitch,” the nameless officer says, gathering their wind for an extended tirade. “What makes you think you know better than your elders?”_ _

__“Sir?” Keith says carefully._ _

__“Making accusations out of nothing,” the officer says, glowering down._ _

__“Sir,” Keith says. “I see dead people.”_ _

__Visibly, the officer recoils. For a torturous minute they continue to stare searchingly at Keith but finally stalk off without speaking further. Keith takes a long, grounding breath and returns to his assignment._ _

__-_ _

__Pain scores its way across Keith’s cheek but he can’t stop, not now. The bayard forms in his hand then Shiro’s prosthetic is falling away, just like the violet light in his eyes. For a long moment they breathe raggedly together; Shiro’s fallen back and to a knee, clutching his shoulder, while Keith rises up, blade and bayard in hand. He’s trying to steel his heart to continue fighting when Shiro speaks._ _

__“Keith,” Shiro says, softer than he’s spoken in months. The quintessence that is his flickers. All of the defenses that Keith’s tried to raise fall away, and then they too are falling as the platform gives way._ _

__Keith catches Shiro before he stops their fall. He can’t not. He won’t give up on Shiro._ _

__-_ _

__After the trial, Keith’s ability to endure and continue sears itself into Shiro’s memory. With a selection of Blades hunkered down in the cargo hold, there’s only Shiro in the cockpit with Keith; and yet Keith is still trying to conceal his hurts, breathing shallow and open-mouthed. Shiro thinks he remembers hearing Keith’s ribs crack; and still Keith got up and raised his knife once more to a ready position._ _

__It’s been a long time since Shiro caught Keith trying to hide his pain. It’s as painful a realization this time as before; when did Keith stop trusting Shiro with his vulnerability? But this isn’t about Shiro. This is about Keith, and the way the threads of his past have suddenly turned out to include much different elements than previously expected. And until Ulaz, the only things they knew of the Galra were their monsters._ _

__It takes Shiro’s help to get Keith out of the Blades’ Trial uniform--his help, and his determination to never see Keith dressed like that ever again--tearing it open with only the strength of his hands. It hadn’t been intentional to do so in front of Kolivan, but Kolivan had apologized for the disruption and stepped back out of the changing room as Keith tolerated Shiro’s application of first aid. Once Shiro had fastened the flightsuit and helped Keith settle the final piece of armor into place, it was as if a barrier had gone up around Keith’s heart. And even now, inside the Red Lion’s cockpit together, Shiro’s not sure if Keith trusts him right now._ _

__“Keith--” the others chatter loudly as a line opens with the Castle. “Is everything all right?”_ _

__Keith’s pale and swollen with building aches, but he doesn’t show it. He stays stonily silent, and beside him Shiro rests a hand against his uninjured shoulder._ _

__“We’ll talk about it later,” Shiro says carefully. “In the meantime, we have several guests returning with us.”_ _

__There’s no hiding or delaying to strategize revealing Keith’s background; Keith’s never been the kind to do that. He’s too honest for the soft lies of diplomatic tongues._ _

__“I’m Galra,” Keith says. The others’ reaction is an impossible one, to anyone who has ever known them together: they fall into a silence deep and heartbreaking as a grave. By the time Shiro’s lead Kolivan and Antok into the meeting room, Keith’s ready to bolt._ _

__“Keith,” Shiro says with an easy smile, hand to his shoulder. “Why don’t you take it easy while I debrief the others?”_ _

__“Yes, sir,” Keith says, quiet but crisp. Then he disappears out of the room--the only reprieve Shiro can give him, for now--and Shiro’s left alone with the Alteans, the Blades, and the remaining paladins for one of the more tense debriefs Shiro has ever experienced._ _

__“Let’s get started,” Shiro says, firmly enough that no one asks what the hell just happened._ _

__It takes a long time for Shiro to leave the meeting. Allura’s disdain is more easily masked in the face of Kolivan and Antok; they are visibly Galra, and their bodies announce their heritage in a way that Keith’s doesn’t. She doesn’t feel betrayed by the revelation of their identities._ _

__Formally, the meeting is dismissed in an hour. Informally, the possibility of using the Blades’ resources in the fight against Zarkon results in an extended discussion primarily between Allura and Kolivan, with commentary and suggestions from the others. They keep trying to drag Shiro back in--however unintentionally--until finally he excuses himself forcefully._ _

__It takes far less time to locate Keith. Instinct says that Keith will retreat to secured grounds; Keith’s eyes were too wild in Red for him to seek her now, and he’s too worn-down to seek the familiar comfort of ritualized motion and combat. And Shiro’s room--who knows if Keith feels secure enough in their bond to seek that familiar space._ _

__When Shiro knocks, Keith’s voice shapes his name, familiar and worn. Not a question, but an invitation. And he hasn’t locked them out, least of all Shiro._ _

__Keith’s in the bed, curled tightly in on himself. He’s showered but at least the dressings Shiro had applied so carefully are intact--Altean first aid kits seemed to default to primarily waterproof materials--at least Keith hasn’t bled through yet. Keith looks up, hair still dripping fat water droplets even though the rest of him is dry._ _

__“Shiro?” Keith rasps again._ _

__“Hey,” Shiro says, paper-soft. Keith winces, infinitesimally small, and he wonders if he can find a way to not hurt him again. “How’re you doing?”_ _

__Impossibly, this is what makes Keith’s face crumple further. He seems shocked at the fat tears that gather in his eyes and then he’s pushing himself back into the wall again, hands pressed to his face as he shakes. “I’m sorry,” Keith gasps, and chokes on a sob. “I don’t--I’m not--”_ _

__Shiro slides forward, kneeling on the bed as he carefully wraps Keith up in his arms and tugs him into his lap. Keith flinches, but then sense memory takes over and he relaxes into the hard plates of armor Shiro’s still wearing. “It’s okay,” Shiro says, trying to find a way to hold Keith that won’t hurt him. Keith doesn’t seem to care, only burrows deeper into the embrace. “It’ll be okay.”_ _

__“I’m--” Keith says, muffled into plate armor, shoulders hitching up towards his ears, “I’m not trying to manipulate you. I promise.”_ _

__For a long moment, it feels like Shiro’s heart stops. Then he feels the way Keith’s frozen in his arms and tightens his arms around him, lets one slide into Keith’s hair so there’s hardly any distance between them. “You’re not,” Shiro says, and “even so, ‘even tears have honesty.’”*_ _

__Keith sobs once more and his hands latch onto Shiro’s armor. “Please don’t go,” Keith whispers._ _

__“Okay,” Shiro says softly, “let me take off my armor, I don’t want to hurt you.”_ _

__Keith shakes where he sits but his hands loosen and fall away. Shiro eases back slowly--not off the bed, just to have enough room to move without knocking into Keith--and strips the armor off as quickly as he can without moving aggressively. Finally, he’s down to just the flightsuit._ _

__“Keith,” Shiro says, soft and a little helpless. He doesn’t know how to help Keith right now, like this. His world has been rocked, surely, effected by the gravitational pull of a strange new cosmic collective. Keith stares at him, breathing shallowly as he tries to breathe past the tears still spilling down his cheeks; without another word, Shiro reaches out and tugs Keith back into his arms._ _

__After a moment, the tension spills out of Keith and he goes lax in Shiro’s arms. “Hey,” Shiro says softly, hand reaching up to tip Keith’s face towards him, “I’m here, everything’s going to be okay.”_ _

__The first kiss lands on the apple of Keith’s cheek, dampened with tears. The second is placed to mirror the first. The third lands at the corner of Keith’s mouth, and then he’s gasping for breath, gasping to return Shiro’s kiss. The next kiss tastes like the ocean but more pure, frantic and wet and powerful; Keith’s hands gather the flightsuit and cling to it._ _

__“You amaze me,” Shiro confesses, enfolding one of Keith’s hands in his--so small compared to his own, and still so strong--raising it close enough to press more tiny kisses to. “You take on so much--”_ _

__Keith makes a small noise at this, choked-off as he surges forward like he wants to drown in Shiro’s mouth. His mouth is hot and desperate._ _

__“I will never give up on you,” Keith says, and even if they’re words they’ve shared before, this time they sound like an oath. Shiro can only kiss him again for that, and again, and again. Keith opens up like the starry expanse of the sky, on a clouded night when the wind sweeps cleanly in: it’s not that the stars had gone anywhere, only been obscured for a time. So to does Keith respond to each kiss, slowly revealing his heart._ _

__Drawing back ever so much, Shiro looks over Keith, thumb wiping clean the traces of his tears. Now, at least, his face is flushed for sweeter reasons; discomfort isn’t totally gone from him, but at least it’s subsumed. Shiro can’t help smiling at Keith, and Keith returns it. This time, it’s Keith who leans in close, leading with a firm, chaste kiss. It’s a promise for more, if it’s wanted._ _

__There are a lot of things that Shiro wants. This is one that he can want and hope to have. If Keith still wants him, still wants to keep him close._ _

__“What do you want?” Shiro asks, hand tracing its way down Keith’s bare side. There’s strength there, beneath the purpling bruises. Sinew and bone. There might be sprains or breaks, but there is nothing that will not heal with time or aid._ _

__Under Shiro’s hand is the smooth cloth of the towel that Keith’s still wearing--the _only_ thing Keith’s wearing, besides the water spilling from his hair, besides the necklace and the ring. Shiro kisses the ring, watching color climb Keith’s cheeks. It seems out of place, given the way they’ve mapped each other’s bodies since they first came together like this. It’s addictive, to be able to watch Keith like this._ _

__“Inside,” Keith says, red-cheeked but determinedly meeting Shiro’s eyes. “I want you inside me.”_ _

__For a moment, Shiro stops. Then he presses another kiss to the ring, then to Keith’s knuckles, the soft skin on the inside of his wrist. They haven’t done this since the desert, not like this. Too wary of using alien toiletries for anything except external use. “You sure?” he asks._ _

__“I think that I studied the ingredients labels long enough that the universal translator figured out terminology I could understand,” Keith says. His hand slides to the section of the wall that functions as a headboard, taps it twice to reveal a small hidden cabinet. The tube of Altean all-purpose lotion inside is remarkably like the tubes of lubricant that might be found in an earth-side store._ _

__“Alright,” Shiro says, drawing Keith high into his lap, dragging off the towel and casting it aside; Keith’s legs part naturally over Shiro’s spread thighs._ _

__Keith has a fond, amused look as he reaches over Shiro’s shoulder and guides the zipper down along his spine. The tear tracks are fading, but Keith’s still obviously flushed and damp. Shiro wonders if he should be surprised at how much he still wants Keith. “This,” he says, focused and demanding despite the conflict of the angle and his injuries._ _

__Laughing, Shiro drops the alien lube and drags the sleeves clear of his arms. Unfastened, the flightsuit moves easily. New territories of flesh reveal themselves: broad shoulders, toned abdomen, strong thighs. Rather than back away, Shiro crowds teasingly forward as he frees himself, carefully trapping Keith against the wall and watching him shiver as bare skin brushes bare skin._ _

__The lube warms easily but not alarmingly, spreading slick across Shiro’s fingers. This part is easy enough; Keith takes Shiro’s questing fingers easily enough, moving with and moved by them. The rest is harder. Sheltered between the wall and Shiro’s bulk, Keith lies in his side, leg tucked around Shiro’s hip. They breathe together through the effort of coming together like a controlled fall from orbit--carefully through the intoxicating heat of it, through the feral close-clutch of it--until they’ve almost learned how to be so close together again, after all the hurt._ _

__“Keith,” Shiro says, cradling his jaw. Keith, who looks like Shiro’s a new galaxy turning in place like it’s standing still even as it drifts around a nameless, precious star. Keith tips his head up, opening sweetly when pressed to. Then Shiro starts to move._ _

__One armed braces against the wall, palm out and fingers spread to keep Keith’s head from knocking back. The other grasps Keith by the hip, guiding him forward to meet his thrusts. Keith moves with him, desperate motion tempered by Shiro’s touch. They’re not going to last--neither of them is--they’re too caught-up by all that it’s taken to carry them through all the varga spent on the Blades’ trial and ever since._ _

__In the end, it’s not the furious, almost reckless pace that Shiro sets that does them in. Wetness brushes Shiro’s cheek and he draws back, concerned, to see that Keith’s crying again. Noticing the change, Keith blinks up at him; instead of wounded, his eyes are shining and soft. Vulnerable but assured. Shiro can’t help himself, he dips his head back down and presses gentling kisses to the corners of Keith’s eyes where they’re damp._ _

__Keith shuts his eyes then and comes hot between them, untouched. His arms tighten around Shiro; he shuts his eyes and thrusts once, twice, and spills deeply. For a long moment they lie still like that, catching their breath and feeling sweat cool where the air can brush close. Then, regretful to separate but knowing its necessity, slides clear of Keith._ _

__Even now, Shiro finds himself reluctant to let Keith slip from his sight. They’ll both regret it if they don’t do at least the minimum in clean-up._ _

__“Don’t move,” Shiro says softly, letting his fingers trace down Keith’s flank, gentle as can be. “I’ll be back.”_ _

__Wordlessly, Keith nods. Shiro slips into the bathroom just long enough to dampen a cloth and returns to find Keith curled up where he usually lies against the wall, eyes watchful and dark._ _

__“Hey, baby,” Shiro says softly, kneeling naked beside Keith and urging him to shift until he’s laid loose-limbed down the middle of the bed and Shiro can clean up the mess of fluids spilling down Keith’s thighs. Keith shudders, eyes shutting tightly, and Shiro forces himself to focus on paying attention for signs of pain rather than think about how fucked-out Keith looks, and how much more he could get. Today least of all, Shiro wants Keith not to hurt._ _

__And after the day they’ve had--or has it been a couple days, mutually sleepless?--Shiro drops the wash cloth off the side of the bed where neither of them is likely to step on it, and lies down. Only limited prodding is necessary to chivvy Keith under the sheets and blankets, and Keith’s pulling Shiro down with him._ _

__Keith should be beyond exhausted; the only rest he’s caught since they left the Castle of Lions was when he passed out in the middle of his trial. But Keith’s eyes catch the low light. Like he’s worried that Shiro will slip from his fingers, will abandon him like in his vision. Shiro feels the same thread of worry, and decides to abandon their usual sleeping arrangement to curl on his side and drag Keith back into the sheltering curve of his body. If anyone were to enter the room, they would see only Shiro’s broad shoulders. After a moment Keith reaches back, wrapping Shiro’s arm around him and settling deeper into his embrace._ _

__“What you said about crying, before,” Shiro says as they lie pressed together in the cool dark, “who--?”_ _

__“From the first foster home, after my dad died,” Keith says. “It was a long time ago.”_ _

__“It was a cruel thing to be told,” Shiro says._ _

__There’s a long moment before Keith speaks, and even then it’s only after he’s burrowed closer to Shiro. “Yeah, he says, voice thick with tears. “Yeah, it was.”_ _

__-_ _

__“O my son,” Krolia says. “Blood of my blood.”_ _

__Keith holds his body as still as he can manage even as his veins sing with frantic, conflicted energy. “What--what do you mean?” he stammers._ _

__“When Kolivan sent you, he would have known that I could not give you up, not again,” Krolia says. “That is why.”_ _

__“What--why?” Keith says, hands shaking around the craft’s controls._ _

__“We have no time for such questions and answers,” Krolia says. “We must seek those coordinates.”_ _

__Keith’s mouth presses into a stiff, straight line. “Fine,” he says, and draws back the steering mechanism. His hands are sure once more._ _

__-_ _

__“The Blade of Marmora has existed for a long time, a knife in the dark shadow of the empire,” Krolia says one night as they drift through space. “In the beginning, we were nameless and more bold. But our lack of caution cost us our friends and we were forced to go to ground.”_ _

__“Krolia?” Keith says._ _

__“There are only so many blades like this,” Krolia says, inclining her head towards the blade in Keith’s hands. “For there was only one among our number whose gift allowed the manipulation of luxite and allowed it to become linked to its owner’s quintessence. And she died long ago.”_ _

__“Did you know her well?” Keith asks, thinking of softness in Krolia’s tone._ _

__“She was my friend,” Krolia says. “But in the end that didn’t save her.”_ _

__“I’m sorry,” Keith says, because that’s a pain he’s known, even if Shiro’s always turned up alive later._ _

__Krolia can only nod sharply; it’s hours more before she speaks again. “Be wary of the druids,” she says. “Once, before the empire took its modern shape, magic was rare among our people. But then the void was laid open like a threshold and the spread of that corrupted quintessence altered those it touched.”_ _

__“What do you mean?” Keith asks._ _

__“The face of the Galra has changed,” Krolia says, “and those who lived at its heart have forgotten how to die, except with great violence.”_ _

__-_ _

__Keith won’t understand the quiet horror in his mother’s voice until he remembers facing off against a druid, not long before they first faced off against Zarkon. None of them, save perhaps Shiro, had ever seen the druids before._ _

__What Keith saw then he had never seen before: worn down shades of the souls of the dead, bound impossibly to one who was still living. Instinctively he knew that this was something cruel, something twisted. The soul may linger and wander after its passing; to be bound like this is a curse, to be used as fuel until paper-thin and still on, until it is unmade. It’s a secondary death, impossible to reverse._ _

__-_ _

__“What--what happened?” Keith shouts, panicked, blade coming alive in his hand. He doesn’t know where he is; he doesn’t know where Shiro is, even he can hear Shiro calling his name. “You--you were trying to kill me--you, you said the others--”_ _

__“I’m not here to harm you,” Shiro says, coalescing out of stardust in this forgotten plane. “The others are fine. Just let me explain._ _

__“That wasn’t me. Since my fight with Zarkon, I’ve been here.”_ _

__“When you disappeared?” Keith says, face twisting with remembered grief._ _

__“Yes,” Shiro says. “I couldn’t find my way by the stars; I didn’t know how time had passed. I existed in a different realm--my physical body was destroyed--”_ _

__Shiro’s words come faster than Keith can process them, but his prescient heart begins to pound._ _

__“--I died, Keith,” Shiro says, eyes solemn. “But somehow the Black Lion retained my essence.”_ _

__When they hit, Shiro’s words sear through him like a meteor strike: full force and still burning with atmospheric entry. The pain of it cuts soul-deep; it makes Keith want to bend at the waist for the ache of it, to scream for the loss to empty heavens and distant stars. But he can’t. He has to keep listening to Shiro._ _

__“Is that where we are? In the black lion’s consciousness?” Keith says, when he’s sure the screams are locked in and unable to progress past his throat._ _

__“I tried to warn the others,” Shiro says, soft and regretful, “but our connection wasn’t strong enough.”_ _

__Before either of them can say anything more, Shiro scatters once more into lonely stardust and Keith wakes in the belly of the Black Lion, aching and alive beside the other Shiro._ _

__“Thank you,” Keith whispers, and forces himself up. If the other Paladins are alive, he thinks, eyes sliding over to Shiro, then they’ll need his help._ _

__-_ _

___”Keith,”_ Shiro says--Keith’s Shiro, and yet not, the one whose eyes burned violet as he tried to kill Keith--eyes once more a gentle, mournful brown. _”Keith--”__ _

__Keith’s not-quite dreaming. Every sense except visual is engaged fully: nose full of sweat and blood and the not-quite metal of a lion, ears pricking up with every bit of scattered chatter from the others as they nervously touch base, the grips Keith’s hands grip loosely as his body aches and throbs. At least Keith can rest his eyes, look hopefully through the Black Lion’s instead. Shiro hasn’t spoken to him since Keith asked for his help; he hopes it isn’t a portent._ _

__“Shiro?” Keith murmurs._ _

__Shiro looks back, heart-breakingly kind. His gaze drops to his hands, which flicker with distortion more alike the kind edited onto tech-based movies. Not the scattering stardust of the Shiro inside the Black Lion. “You know I’m not. Even though we all thought I was,” he says, flickering uncontrollably. “Same genetics and same magic, new shell with the choke of a new curse.”_ _

__“Shiro,” Keith says with rising desperation. “I promised--”_ _

__“And I’m asking you to choose him,” he says, looking up and meeting Keith’s gaze once more. For a heartbeat, his image steadies. “I wanted you to know. When I go.”_ _

__“What if it destroys you?” Keith asks softly. “We don’t know what that’ll do to you.”_ _

__“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Shiro says. His hand reaches out and brushes Keith’s cheek, and when he doesn’t flinch, slips his hand back through Keith’s long, wild hair to cradle the base of his skull._ _

__Closing his eyes, Keith nods._ _

__“You told him that everything would be just fine, if only he could hold on a little longer,” Shiro says. Keith frowns, trying to trace back the words to their source. To himself--to the words he whispered to the Black Lion, trying to find his way back to the others--and words he’d never thought anyone would pay attention to._ _

___In everything, a soul,_ Sarge’s terse voice whispers in his head, a timeless wisp of memory. She’d talked to her car, her phone, her cat. Keith had picked the habit up from her, playing at her feet as she maintained the sewing machine, and had carried the memory with him until he could let it breathe in the lonely desert._ _

__Shiro’s grip shifts and Keith clutches at his clothes. “I’ll hold on a little longer,” Shiro says, tapping softly at Keith’s lower lip. “And you save him.”_ _

__“Okay,” Keith says._ _

__“Thank you,” Shiro says. His fingertips slide drily and deliberately parallel to the burn crossing Keith’s cheek; he kisses Keith then, instead of saying anything more. When he opens his eyes, Keith’s back in the pilot’s seat and his cheek is throbbing relentlessly. Shiro’s as safe and stable as possible in the little pod that works as escape pod and emergency medical life support._ _

__On the comm link, Pidge announces a nearby planet that’s a close enough atmospheric match to their needs._ _

__“Lead the way,” Keith orders._ _

__-_ _

__“So, what do you want to work on today?” Shiro asks, dropping from a run to a walk, chest shaking with exertion._ _

__“Hm, is it an obstacle course day?” Keith asks teasingly._ _

__“You just want to watch me suffer through burpees?” Shiro says, mock-accusing. Then the door to the gym cracks open, and their guards go up. It’s a public-access gym, but it’s the heart of the Friday night dinner rush and that means that it is very rare for anyone else to be there. Keith tenses, wondering if it’s another officer coming to throw their bypass of accepted concealment of harassment._ _

__It’s not. It’s Steel, sweeping in like a forest fire lapping at the boundaries of containment. “Takashi,” he says mildly, “Keith. I understand that you’re responsible for the current situation.”_ _

__“Steel,” Shiro says, shifting automatically forward to set himself in front of Keith. He doesn’t comment on the overly intimate way Steel uses his given name--the name that only family and his partners had used. Under his breath he tells Keith to stand down and let him handle the situation. Reluctantly, Keith obeys._ _

__If this were one of the movies that they liked to catch at the theater in town that liked to do showings of older movies, then Steel would present an extended villainous dialogue detailing all the reasons they should not have foiled his nefarious plans. Instead, Steel says, “Well,” and charges forward._ _

__Shiro’s been in the Garrison long enough to have spent years practicing their hand to hand combat. He’s good but formulaic. And he’s never been in a real fight. The first punch Steel throws is redirected easily and Shiro’s own punch grazes Steel’s side. Steel snaps out a kick; when Shiro blocks with his arm, Steel raises his hand and gathers fire in his palm. He’s too fast and practiced for Shiro to block the unexpected attack, bare forearm reddening painfully. Shiro stumbles back and Steel slams a heavy fist into his solar plexus, his face._ _

__Shiro drops, stunned and gasping for breath, and Steel turns coolly towards Keith. Already Keith is in his space, kicking his groin sharply and darting back out of his reach. Steel falls to his knees, gasping, and Keith slaps his open palm against Steel’s ear. Steel continues to struggle to his feet, honing on Shiro who’s still struggling to recover from the earlier blows. Keith’s fights fast and mean, but he’s small; once he’s really started growing and bulking up, he’ll have real strength behind his hits._ _

__Steel struggles upright, shrugging off Keith’s blows. Instinct has Keith launching himself forward, arms scrabbling around Steel’s neck and legs tightening around his abdomen. Instinctively, Steel slams his fist back, trying to dislodge Keith. One blow connects but Keith hunkers determinedly down and squeezes. It’s been a while since he used this hold but his grip and positioning are secure enough that he shouldn’t get too hurt. Finally, Steel drops._ _

__“Shiro?” Keith calls, reluctant to loose his hold._ _

__“I’m okay,” Shiro says breathily. “You?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Keith says. “What do we do?”_ _

__“Well,” Shiro says, grunting as he finally forces himself up off the ground. “I was thinking about getting up--and you too, if you can get loose--and calling up Commander Holt and the MPs.”_ _

__“Huh,” Keith says, and starts convincing his limbs to relax enough to let go. “Okay.”_ _

__“And maybe you can tell me about that move you pulled on him,” Shiro says, pulling Keith upright. Together they stagger towards the communication panel, feeling the ache of forming bruises._ _

__“A rear naked choke,” Keith says absently, and when he realizes Shiro’s staring at him like he’s trying to decide if that’s a joke, “what?”_ _

__Shiro dissolves into laughter, and Keith flushes deeply when he thinks back over what he’s said._ _

__“Hey--” he yelps. “That wasn’t--”_ _

__“I know,” Shiro says, face warm. He reaches out and ruffles Keith’s head softly. “If you want, you can teach me how you did what you did.”_ _

__“You sure you can take it, old-timer?” Keith says._ _

__“Why don’t we see?” Shiro says softly. Then he sets his face and starts dialling._ _

__-_ _

__“They’re going to be pissed,” Keith sighs after Shiro’s made his calls to Sam and MP duty chief and hung up._ _

__“Hm?” Shiro says._ _

__“It’s burgers and fries night,” Keith says. “The MPs are going to be pissed to get dragged away from that.”_ _

__“Wouldn’t they pull from the ones on duty--” Shiro says, and stops. “Oh. Half of them are away for training, aren’t they?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Keith says. “Someone in my barracks has a sister on the training mission.”_ _

__“Huh,” Shiro says, and he turns to Keith once more. Whatever thought he was ready to share disappears as he peers at Keith. “Keith, you’re bleeding.”_ _

__“Oh,” Keith says, hand rising to his face and stopping short of where it throbs. “He had a ring on. I think you’re going to have a shiner.”_ _

__“Yeah, probably,” Shiro says, shrugging good-naturedly. This, of course is the moment in which the MPs and Iverson storm the gym._ _

__“What the hell is going on here?” Iverson barks, eyes alighting on them and suspicious when they land on Keith. Remembering, no doubt, previous scraps Keith had ended up in, and disappointed at the escalation of actually fighting the one officer who unambiguously like him._ _

__“Cadet Kogane and I had just finished warming-up when Kenneth Steel approached and engaged us, sir,” Shiro says crisply._ _

__The new information sets Iverson’s frown even deeper. “Where is Steel?” he growls._ _

__Shiro gingerly points, face twisting involuntarily at the way the new burn on his forearm announces itself again._ _

__“Did you beat him to unconsciousness?” Iverson says, sending forth an MP and medic and glaring fiercely at anyone looking at him._ _

__“No, sir,” Shiro says._ _

__“I’m sure he’ll say he just decided to lay down for a quick nap when he wakes up, Shirogane?”_ _

__“No, sir.”_ _

__“Permission to speak, sir?” Keith says._ _

__Iverson stares him down searchingly, taking in the way Keith’s PT uniform is ruffled, the way blood is drying itchily along his cheek. “Go ahead, Cadet,” he says._ _

__“Captain Shirogane didn’t knock out Instructor Steel,” Keith says. “I did, sir.”_ _

__“And how did you accomplish that, Cadet?” Iverson says._ _

__“With a choke hold, sir,” Keith says._ _

__Iverson’s gearing up for an intensive dressing-down of the danger of irresponsibly using choke holds when Sam Holt bursts through the door, dressed for a nice dinner with his wife. “Stop right there, Commander Iverson,” Sam snaps. “As you’re likely aware, there are several security cameras installed within this room due to past misuse of its function as a public space. There is no need for your interrogation at this time.”_ _

__“Understood,” Iverson grits out._ _

__“Captain Shirogane,” Sam says, tone levelling off even as his expression remains impassioned, “please report to the medical bay for treatment with Cadet Kogane. Please let the staff know to submit an incident report and to forward it to myself.”_ _

__“Yes, sir,” Shiro says. He and Keith snap crisp salutes and exit as quickly as they can walking._ _

__“Wow,” Keith says, once they’re a couple halls down from any personnel._ _

__“Right?” Shiro says. They laugh, shoulders brushing._ _

__-_ _

__“When I said I’d had a little help,” Keith says, “I meant that Shiro been inside the Black Lion this whole time.”_ _

___“No,”_ the others gasp. “How could we not know?”_ _

__“How could we have?” Keith murmurs, gentle and sorrowful. “The things we face as Voltron are like nothing we’ve known. How could we know what Zarkon’s witch was capable of?”_ _

__“Keith,” Allura says, “what’s your plan?”_ _

__He shuts his eyes. “From what I’ve seen of the druids, Haggar’s magic may be close enough to my leaning for me to act. Another option is your Altean alchemy. Can you do it safely?”_ _

__“Even after what I learned on Oriande--” Allura says. “No. Your bond with Shiro is greatest, Keith.”_ _

__“Alright,” Keith says, taking a measured breath. Outside the Black Lion’s eyes, stars spin near and far. He hopes it will be enough for Shiro. Then he shuts his eyes and follows the thread of quintessence bound to his finger. When he opens his eyes, he’s back inside the star-stitched space that is the heart of the Black Lion, Shiro looking worriedly down at him._ _

__“Keith--” Shiro says, “what’s wrong?”_ _

__“It’’s--” Keith says, stops. Shiro’s hand settles on his cheek, gentle and grounding. “I think there’s a way to save you, if you’re willing to chance it.”_ _

__“Does it put you at risk?” Shiro asks. The question shocks Keith; Shiro traces his cheekbone with a thumb, retrieving his attention. “Keith, does it put you at risk?”_ _

__“Some,” Keith says, and “there’ve been worse plans with worse risks?”_ _

__“Yeah?” Shiro says, eyebrows rising._ _

__“Yeah,” Keith says, trying to keep his face placid. “Retrieving biomaterial from the belly of a weblum using only intelligence gathered from a multi-millenia corrupted informational video. We made it back.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Shiro says, sighing, and wraps Keith up in his arms. Even here, made of stardust and quintessence and sealed within a relatively unknown entity, Shiro’s arms are warm and his heart beats steadily within his chest. “I trust you, Keith.”_ _

__“I promised,” Keith says, eyes welling and hands scrabbling for a hold and settling on Shiro’s wrists. “And I will never give up on you.”_ _

__Keith rocks up onto his toes and Shiro bends to meet him. He’s too desperate and Shiro’s too gentle, too mindful of how quickly he could scatter forth once more. Keith’s quintessence is a deep well, and Shiro’s come to know it intimately. So Keith tugs gently and Shiro follows him down, mouth opening up generously._ _

__It’s less like drinking Shiro down and more like climbing astride him to feel over-full and still be ready and wanting to take more of him in. Distantly, he hears the others calling but his senses are full of Shiro. Like Shiro’s climbed inside his body, like they’re looking outward through the Black Lion’s eyes together._ _

__Keith wonders if this is how stars feel, shining bright enough to sing to distant neighbors. Then he’s pushing himself out of the pilot’s seat, moving slow and careful as he burns. It’s not painful, exactly, but even if it were Keith would burn a thousand years to give Shiro relief, and then a thousand more._ _

__-_ _

__“Guiying,” Keith calls, stumbling into the courtyard as he glances about it. The sun’s going down and the temperature is dropping quickly in a way that’s nips at all the skin left exposed in his PT uniform. “Guiying!”_ _

__“Hello, Keith,” she says._ _

__“Did you--” he says, and the words catch in his throat, forcing him to stop and start again more softly. “Did you hear? That Steel’s looking at dishonorable discharge and an array of charges?”_ _

__“I did hear, Keith,” Guiying says. “That was a very hard and brave thing you did, and dangerous.”_ _

__“He was hurting Shiro,” Keith says a little plaintively, because he’d been doing very well about not getting into fights ever since Shiro had said what he’d said, and Keith’s heart had understood the truth in it and made Shiro its lodestar._ _

__“I know,” Guiying says, and smiles. It’s the first one Keith’s seen from her, soft and a little sad. “Thank you, Keith.”_ _

__They stand together in the courtyard for a time, watching the deepening shadows cast by the setting sun. “What’s going to happen?” Keith asks finally, rather than something impossible like _Please don’t go.__ _

__“I think there are more people I could help,” Guiying says. “So that there don’t end up more like me and the rest.”_ _

__“I’m sorry,” Keith whispers, eyes welling. A tear escapes, halting at the gauze pad taped to his cheek._ _

__“Don’t be,” Guiying says. “It’s not your fault. And--I think the things that lead to what happened, that allowed it to get so far are starting to change, thanks to you._ _

__“Now, why don’t you go catch dinner with your friend and put some proper clothing on before you ask me for help studying navigation again?”_ _

__Keith scrubs his face dry with the sleeve of his shirt, laughing a little. “I’ll see you soon, Guiying.”_ _

__“Take care,” she whispers back, and disappears once more._ _

__-_ _

__Everything is cast in light blue as Altean magic and limned in gold--spilling from Keith’s eyes, he realizes belatedly--as he carries forth. The life support pod nears; its cover drops away with a thought and Keith lowers himself into the newly-opened space, gathering Shiro close. He can’t trust himself to speak now; every molecule of him seems to overflow with Shiro’s presence, so instead he lets the tide of his breathing wash over him. Finally, he dips his head and falls into an easy kiss against Shiro’s soft mouth._ _

__Like timeless honey, so too does Shiro’s quintessence: slow at first, but as a single entity. Shiro’s eyes begin to glow and Keith deepens the kiss, encouraging Shiro’s quintessence to flow forth. Finally the glow dies back, first from Keith and then Shiro, and Keith lowers him back into the pod with trembling arms._ _

__“Shiro?” Keith whispers hoarsely, heart in his throat. Suddenly Shiro gasps and shoots upright, falling gently to nestle into the sweet shelter of Keith’s throat._ _

__“You saved me,” Shiro gasps._ _

__Distantly, the others cheer at the sound and sight of Shiro--Keith must have left the comm line open--and they breathe together, weary and satisfied. Keith’s voice is just as gentle. “We saved each other.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Halsey's "Hurricane."
> 
> This work owes many thanks to spookyfoot (who let me steal a few lines that were a little spooky for our bom au), ailurea, verity, and zjo (who is responsible for the amazing astro meta that helped kick this off) whose encouragement and support have been instrumental. Thank you!


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